He's A Pirate Too
by Sendai
Summary: Arr! A Short piratey sequel to He's A Pirate. Our OOC Johnlocked duo is trapped on a desert island and must face pirates because I got bored and wrote this cracky fic. Johhlock (obviously), slash, violence, swearing, m/m, too many pirate tropes, and slash. Rated M. Arr, give it a try. Chapter 5 posted, and on time, so I don't hav'ta walk d' plank! :P
1. Chapter 1

**A/N ** This is a sequel to He's a Pirate*(see note ), which I wrote due to overwhelming demand from readers of He's a Pirate.

Okay, okay a couple of readers did suggest a sequel. No, really they did! So I did write a sequel both in honor of those requests and in honor of INTERNATIONAL TALK LIKE A PIRATE DAY! ARRR!

Aye matey's, today is ITLAPD, September the nineteenth, arr! So swash yor buckles and talk to everyone like you've lived on the old briney all yor days, arr. And don't let no scurvy dogs try to stop ye!

This is not a serious work of fiction, just some piratey fun. It's more fun if you listen to sound tracks of Pirates of the Caribbean while reading it. It's even more fun if you're drinking pirate grog (or any rum laced beverage)...wait, that assumes you are of legal age...which you should be if you're reading an M-rated fic.

Drinking grog while reading this story also violates the Do not drink and read fanfic rule, but what the hell, Its ITLAPD, so go out on a limb...er, out on the bowsprit and lets start a swashbukling ruckus. Arr. Where's me sword and pirate hat?

**Warnings**- imitation pirate talk (lots more more pirate tropes in the upcoming chapters), innuendos, bickering and a stubborn blond, former army cock blocker...Oh a scupper full of angst at the beginning.

CHARACTERS ARE UNDOUBTEDLY OOC. I mean it's a humorous pirate fic, so don't expect them to follow canon-like behaviors. Arr!

* * *

><p><strong><span>He's A Pirate Too<span>**

**Chapter the First**

"Idiot!" yelled Sherlock, looming over his shorter companion, "without the memory sticks there's no evidence! More importantly, without those memory sticks we have nothing to bargain with when Milady comes looking for them."

"Well, maybe she won't come looking for them," snapped John, still dazed from the wreck and near drowning and still stewing over the whole _Milady_ debacle.

_Milady_ was another super-intelligent, super-seductive woman with delusions of grandeur, just like that wretched Adler Woman. No, wait, Milady was worse. She was the Woman _and_ Moriarty all wrapped up in one five-foot ten perfect package of femme fatale…beautiful toffee-colored skin, long blue-black hair and stunning almond-shaped eyes, legs that never stopped and breasts that… well. Well, John may have given his heart to bloke, but he could still appreciate a nice bosom. John hadn't gone blind just yet.

The point being, Milady was everything John was not. And she was a real pirate, and she was so damned smart! Which John was not. Milady was perfect for Sherlock Holmes. Which, apparently, John was not.

So, John stewed impotently, while his heart broke on the reefs of misfortune just like their stolen escape-boat had broken on the coral reef...

"Dear God, of course she'll be coming for them!" yelled Sherlock, dragging his hand through his seawater drenched curls. Damn, thought John, even half drowned that man looked good. The blond blogger eyed _that man's_ lean but muscled chest under his soaking wet shirt. The suit, nearly torn to shreds, lay on the sand. Flung there by the agitated detective once he realized that the memory sticks had been lost in the ship wreck…boat wreck?...dinghy wreck?...launch wreck?

"Are. You. All. Right?" shouted the handsome detective right in John's face. At some point he had grabbed John by the shoulders and now he gave his blogger a little shake.

Oh.

"Umm, yeah," said John, trying to gather his scattered thoughts, which must have been lost in the wreck of the stolen launch along with the valuable flash drives. "What?" he added with a bland, helpful smile that only further irritated the World's Only Consulting Detective.

"Those flash drives are worth more…no they _were _worth more than the gross national products of most countries. _Of course_ she'll be coming for them! And when she doesn't find them, she will kill us."

When John did not look sufficiently concerned at this pronouncement, Sherlock rolled his eyes in contempt. "Milady was right," snarled Sherlock, "You really are an idiot, good for nothing but comic relief!"

Then he shoved his waterlogged, half-drowned blogger aside, ready to storm off in a classic Sherlockian strop. He turned to deliver a final cutting blow, and saw that it wasn't necessary.

He had already eviscerated the man he loved, the only person he could ever love.

The detective's anger stuttered, as the color drained from John's face, just as surely as if he was bleeding to death. Sherlock's eyes flicked down, as though he would see his lover's blood pooling in the sand. The blond's eyes were like dark bruises in his ashen face.

Sherlock regretted everything immediately. He took a conciliatory step towards the doctor who backed away. And that hurt, thought Sherlock.

John's face collapsed momentarily then it assumed that horrid, grimacing, half-smiling mask that John only wore when he was really, really angry or very, very hurt.

The tall brunet desperately hoped that John was really, really angry. Anything but hurt, he absolutely could not hurt John yet again. Sherlock suddenly hoped that John would want to punch him now. That would make them even, right?

Sherlock's own anger, born of frustration over the ruin of his case and fear for John's safety, evaporated in the look of betrayal and hurt, yes hurt that he saw in those beautiful, blue eyes. Damn, he had hurt John yet again.

"John…" said the younger man, swallowing with difficulty.

John shook his head in disbelief, backing away again, but his right leg almost gave out on him. His eyes shifted to hide the pain.

Dammit, this was intolerable, thought Sherlock, as he strode forward, grabbing John's arm to support him.

"John, no. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean any of it," said the consulting detective. "I…I…"

"Never mind," said John, almost whispering at first. He shook his head again and cleared his throat. "It's not important."

"NO! I mean yes, it is…" Sherlock stuttered. He never stuttered.

"No, it's nothing," said John more firmly, "And let go of my arm."

"No. Wait…please," asked Sherlock, who was still uncharacteristically tongue-tied.

When he heard the seldom used 'please', John stopped trying to twist his free his arm. Then the blond tilted his head, and squared his jaw. Sherlock knew John was shoring up his defenses, readying for attack…against the man who was supposed to be his partner, against Sherlock.

The consulting detective needed to fix this.

"John, wait. I just need…"

"What, Sherlock? What d'you need? D'you need more comic relief?"

"Stop it, John."

"Oh, I know. Here's a good one. Did you hear the one about the really dumb blond who used to be somebody and…"

"John, listen to me. I don't know why I said that…"

"Ummm, maybe because you meant it?" snarled John, using resentment to hide his hurt.

"…because it's completely untrue," the tall, pale brunet tugged at his hair in frustration. "You are…you are the best and kindest and bravest man I have ever met. You are my best and only friend. You are the only man…the only person I will ever care about."

"Sherlock…"

"No. Let me finish. I…I have to say this." said Sherlock. "John you aren't just the only person in the world who is willing to put up with me, you are the only person in the world that I care to put up with…. No, that didn't come out right."

"Never mind!" said John. "Your last minute apologies are not going to fix this. You abandoned our real case…"

"Which was dull. We only took the case so that you could take the cruise and relax after that disaster in the sewers. It was only a three or four. Anyway, I solved it. As I told you, the purser did it; we just didn't have all the proof…"

"The case isn't officially solved without the evidence or a confession, Mr. Consulting Detective, which you've said many times. So I was right, you abandoned our real case to go chase after Milady and her gang of mercenaries and thugs…"

"Pirates, they are pirates."

"Call 'em whatever you want!"

"They are pirates, of course I had to chase _pirates_," explained Sherlock, his eyes widening with rekindled excitement over the very idea of real pirates.

"You chased after that _Milady_," corrected John, ignoring that enticing look on Sherlock's face. "You chased after her…and then you seduced her!"

"It was for the case!"

"You made love to another woman, and THAT'S CHEATING!"

"Only for the case!" yelled Sherlock, his neck straining with renewed fury. "And if that's all that's bothering you, you should know I never had actual sex with here! Not once! You set the guidelines eight cases ago. You said no sex…"

"You're bloody right I did! I said you could fake _light _kissing and touching, for your cases. Which specifically did not include sticking your tongue down her throat or bringing her off with your hands or whatever…"

"I did not use whatever, and she never got me off, so technically…"

"Don't give me technically!" John all but screamed, like a jealous fishwife. John hated himself. He hated Milady, Sherlock and himself again. "You cheated on me, whether it was for your precious mistress, The Work, or whether it was because you found _her_ so thrillingly wonderful because she was soooo smart and beautiful and piratey…you still cheated! I just don't matter in the grand scheme of Sherlock's world…"

"That's not true, John. You do matter."

"If I mattered, then why did you abandon me to those thugs…"

"Pirates."

"Thugs! Thugs, mercenaries, terrorists and murderers!" shouted John. "Bloody hell, Sherlock. You say _pirates_ like they're sea-going Robin Hoods or disreputable but lovable adventurers. _Milady_ and her _pirates, _hijacked that cruise ship, killed seven people and stole those flash drives so that she could ransom them…"

"No, she was going to blackmail the executives of those banks millions, possibly hundreds of millions of pounds, or more likely dollars. It was a very elegant and bold plan…."

"See? See? You _admire_ her!" John's voice dropped with the accusation. "You admire a woman, who _destroyed_ a village last year, killing innocent men, women and children because one person in the village, _one person_, informed on her and her sea-going gang. They bragged about it, you know," said John glaring up from under lowered brows. "They took pictures of their sodding crimes and they showed me the pictures of their atrocities tome while they bragged about 'em. They bragged about wiping out that village and they bragged about things even worse than that, while they beat the shite out of me. And while I was getting worked over and while they were getting ready to kill me, _you_ worked on your case and bedded fucking _Milady!"_

"I thought you were safe. The last time I saw you, you were locked in that cabin…safe," said Sherlock wrong-footed and hating it. "And I rescued you. I came as fast as I could, once I knew that you were in danger," said Sherlock. He felt that horrid pain in his chest and throat, which he knew was guilt. And he was guilty, because he had gotten caught up in the Work, and he had lost track of his blogger, and John had gotten hurt and then nearly drowned.

"Yeah, you finally got around to checking on me, _after_ you were done getting off with Mata Hari…"

"No, I came for you as soon as I got the flash drives."

"HA!" shouted John, the empty grimace/smile plastered back on his face. This time it was hurt and anger. "I came second to the flash drives. As usual, I came second to your bloody Work."

"No, John," said Sherlock, because that wasn't true. John came second to nothing. Sherlock ground his teeth in frustration.

"John I admit that I lost track of time, but as soon as I got wind that you were in danger. I stopped everything to get to you. I would have done so, flash drives or not…"

"Well, we'll never know that, now will we?" said John, in a falsely cheerful sneer, tracing a line in the sand with his bare foot. There was a pause while John lengthened his line. "D'you know why you _had_ to chase Milady and seduce her and steal the drives from her?" asked John pleasantly.

Ah, a question that Sherlock could easily answer. Sadly, the genius did not see the trap.

"Because it was a new case. An important case," said Sherlock earnestly. "John, you have no idea what was on those memory sticks. She stole them from that fool from the International Monetary Fund, because the information on those drives could bring the financial world to its knees. The case was important; even you have to agree. It was a ten. I prevented the collapse of half the world's banks."

"NO!" yelled John stepping over his line and shoving his finger in Sherlock's chest. "No! That's all true, but that's _not_ why you did it. You did it because you're a pirate too! Like calls to like and pirate calls to pirate!" John waved his arms wildly as he marched back to his borderline, dragging his bare heel in the sand, leaving a wavering line in it's wake.

"John, what on earth are you doing?" asked Sherlock.

"I'm dividing the island," said John. The word 'idiot' was in subtext. "That's _your_ half of the island, the pirate half of the island. Sadly, there's no flash drives or pirates or grog for you. Maybe you could look for buried treasure. I did leave you plenty of coconut trees. In fact, I suggest you take off your clothes so that they dry, especially your shoes. Then get under the shade so you don't burn…"

"You're being ridiculous," interrupted the brunet.

"No, it's not ridiculous. Even pirates can get sunburned. Especially, bloody, pale pirates like you."

"That's not what I meant," interjected Sherlock.

"Pirates can also get dehydrated," said John, marking his border with a few rocks and shells. "I suggest you gather up some coconuts and open them and…"

"Have you lost your feeble little mind?" asked Sherlock, stepping over the line.

The small, blond, very determined, border guard charged. He shoved Sherlock's shoulders, driving the tall interloper back over the boundary.

"Pirates on that side of the island!" announced the little tyrant, pointing indignantly. "This side is for honest, boring old soldiers who keep their word and who don't give up without a fight!"

"And who don't cheat on their boyfriends," John added darkly, in spite of the bright tropical sunshine.

"Fight? You can't possibly plan on fighting Milady's pirates!" said Sherlock, his pale eyes wide with disbelief.

"If she comes her, of course I'll fight back. Of course I will."

"She has seventeen pirates, a huge yacht and a veritable arsenal full of weapons."

"And I have this desert eagle you _pirated_ for me and the pocket knife I found in the launch before _you_ let it run aground. You had the tiller, so don't even try to blame me for the wreck or losing your precious _pirate booty_!"

"We were in the launch because I was rescuing you…"

"You were rescuing those flash drives!"

"They were secondary to you…"

"Liar!"

"I rescued you from Milady and when the launch broke up on the reef, I saved you from drowning without a thought about the flash drives…"

"Until we got to shore. Then you regretted those flash drives. You wished you had saved _them_ instead of _me_!"

Sherlock was dumbfounded. John actually believed what he was saying. Once again, Sherlock had bollixed up this relationship. Perhaps it had something to do with seducing Milady, which had been such a successful ploy…

John stood with his hands on his hips, chest heaving with anger. With his flashing eyes and tousled blond hair, his blogger had never looked so damned attractive to the consulting detective. Indeed, John's tattered shirt hid nothing and his wet jeans clung to his adorable little bum...

"John, you have reached an erroneous conclusion. I blame myself. I have not sufficiently demonstrated the depth of my regard for you," said Sherlock, dropping his voice into the registers that never failed to arouse his little firebrand of a doctor. 'Allow me to…apologize."

The tall brunet dropped his shirt in the sand.

John swallowed only with great difficulty. He ignored the finely chiseled physique of his so-called boyfriend. He ignored the growing problem in his own too tight jeans. John H, Watson, Captain, RAMC, Ret. would not be appeased by a quick roll in the hay…well, roll in the sand actually. Not even with a sex god.

"No," croaked John. He held his hand up like traffic officer and cleared his throat yet again. "No. You stay on your side of the island, pirate." Somehow, that didn't come out as harshly as he'd planned, thought John.

"But your side is better, Jawhn."

"Your side has everything my side has," said John, his blue eyes narrowed in doubt.

"It doesn't have you," said the handsome devil with a voice like sin and a smile like the original serpent in Eden.

"I have work to do," said John, his voice still too husky. His body hated him; he hated himself for rejecting the god of sex in front of him. But John feared that he'd hate himself even more if he just gave in…

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, those steely cold eyes evaluating, 'Work, what work could you possibly have?"

"You said the pirates are coming," said John, freed from his wavering, now that he remembered that he actually did have a task. "I have to get ready for the pirates."

"What getting ready? They'll come. They'll take us prisoner. They won't find the memory sticks. Then they'll kill us," said the tall brunet, finger combing his wild curls. He did not add that Milady might choose to spare Sherlock; she had been quite taken with him, after all. He also did not add that he would sooner die with John rather than live a life without his blogger, even if he could be a pirate.

…then after I get the gun squared away," said John, who was now knees deep in some pointless explanation. At least, it was pointless to Sherlock. who was convinced that their deaths were imminent. "I'll want to clean and dry the two magazines and twenty-three extra rounds you gave me. Then of course I have to reinforce the bunker…well, more like a barricade. If Milady comes, we'll have to take refuge behind the barricade…"

"Barricade? What barricade?" asked the confused detective. Because there was no barricade. This was a tiny, flat atoll, a forgotten speck in the middle of the vast ocean.

"The rocks, the volcanic rocks over there on the backside of the island. The big rocks," the blond former soldier added helpfully as he gestured grandly at the pile of rock.

"How do you know they're volcanic?" Sherlock asked in frustration. The rocks were barely chest high, and was John seriously cock-blocking his lover during their last hours on earth?

John lifted his chin, as if trying to make himself look taller. "This is an atoll, Sherlock. It's the top of a giant underwater volcano. Of course the rocks are igneous. And the volcano is surrounded by the coral reefs that grow on it. It's the reefs that actually tore our boat apart," declaimed John smugly. "How can you not know this, it's secondary school stuff."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, well aware of the unspoken allusion to his previous lack of knowledge about astronomy. Then he glanced at the rocks, which were to form John's _barricade._

"How are there rocks, if the volcano is under water?" his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"The very top of the volcano is above water, _obviously_," said John with an annoying smirk. The former soldier squatted and began to strip his gun, laying the pieces out on Sherlock's tattered jacket so that they could dry in the sun. "Really, Sherlock do try to keep up. Oh, and get in the shade, else you'll burn."

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><p><strong>AN ***He's a Pirate was my first fic. It's just a short piece of crack and not integral to this story. Sadly He's a Pirate is LOADED with errors and less than perfect editing choices. If you do read it, I apologize in advance because I haven't had time to re-edit it.

As far as this fic goes...I hope to post all remaining chapters at least once a week or perhaps more often. There'll be five or six more chapters I think.

Reviews are better than pirate booty, so please be generous with sharing your treasured thoughts.

HAPPY INTERNATIONAL TALK LIKE A PIRATE DAY. ARRR! ;P


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter the Second

_Our seagoing tall tale continues from Chapter the First, where we left John cleaning his recently pirated and accidentally submerged desert eagle with an annoying smirk on his face (annoying to the eagle-eyed consulting pirate anyway). The annoying yet brave doctor had just advised the consulting pirate to "…try to keep up", and "get in the shade, else you'll burn."_

_After this irritating sally, sulking and smirking reigned on the atoll. After many tedious hours of sulking by the buccaneer and smirking by the industrious little soldier, it was finally time to re-engage…_

The buccaneer fired the opening salvo, naturally.

"John, you're getting sun burnt," said the World's Only Pirating Detective. He reclined indolently in the dappled shade of the coconut trees, on his almost comfortable nest of palm fronds.

"No, I'm not. I have my hat," said John, who was wrong as usual, observed the tall brunet. The pink, sun-kissed blond glared defiantly, from underneath what John called a hat, a makeshift straw-like, shade _thing,_ which the incredibly busy blond had fashioned from palm fronds.

"Your skin is becoming red," announced the detective, sounding bored because he was bored, beyond bored. He forced himself to stand up to explore the incredibly dull islet again just so he wouldn't fall asleep, which would be more boring. "Put on a shirt and trousers," he ordered absently.

"I _don't_ take orders from cheating, heart-breaking _pirates_," muttered John, just loud enough for anyone on the tiny islet to hear.

The black-hearted pirate rolled his eyes, and picked up an abandoned coconut, as if glaring at it, in combination with his massive intellect, would open the hard-shelled fruit.

Maybe, thought John with a smirk, maybe the git thought he could burn holes into it with his patented death glare.

John's smirk slowly faded as he looked guiltily at the three coconuts, which he'd opened with his ingenious drill. At least, John thought it was ingenious, considering he made it out of coral and twine, which in turn he'd made from his tattered shirt...Anyway the drill worked, so he had quenched his thirst with coconut milk and Sherlock had not.

He'd thought himself rather clever at the time. Now however, John just felt like a small-minded twat.

John sighed. "Here, have some coconut milk, before you get dehydrated." He stood at the edge of his improvised border, holding out a coconut with two holes roughly drilled into it.

Sherlock eyed his companion like an unusual strain of virus, before heading back to his bit of beach, without the peace-offering.

John sighed again, and then once more scanned the horizons for any signs of black sails or sleek grey yachts, either of which could indicate the presence of more pirates, pirates even worse than Sherlock the Black-Hearted Cheating Pirate.

The soldier considered climbing a palm tree to increase improve visability…but he'd nearly scraped himself raw the last time he tried climbing. Plus he fell on the way down and nearly broke his neck, making the pirate alternately laugh derisively at him and then scold him for almost getting hurt. It was humiliating and painful.

"I did not cheat," rumbled the pirate in John's ear, startling the soldier. Sherlock had crept back unseen, the way only sneaky, mind-reading buccaneers could do.

Naturally, John's forehead folded into a furrowed frown. "You did cheat…" the blond began.

"No, I did not," said Sherlock interrupting, "I felt nothing for Milady, aside from a mild degree of respect for her intellect and cunning. I did not pursue her for lust; I only wished to lull her into a false sense of security, so that I could obtain the flash drives."

"See! You admit you cheated! You kissed her and...

"I did not violate _your_ strictures, which clearly allowed kissing and limited touching, John," continued the sea lawyer. "However, if you wish to change the guidelines again, I could be amenable to…"

"FINE!" snapped John, who wanted to toss the coconut at his boyfriend's big head.

The blond took moment to calm himself with some a deep breathing.

"Fine?" said Sherlock hopefully leaning down.

"Wait!" snapped Captain Watson, holding up the coconut as if it was a grenade. The blond narrowed his eyes saying, "Back to your side of the island. Fine only means that I agree to a _parlay."_

The shorter soldier determinedly pushed the buccaneer back to the pirate side of the island.

"A what?"

"A parlay. It's when…"

"I know what it means," snapped the detective.

"Maybe you think you do, but you may not know what I know, and I know what I think it means," Sherlock looked askance at his companion's gibberish. "...and what I mean is that we are going to hold a cease fire, while we negotiate our terms."

"As usual, you are needlessly complicating things."

"Fine, forget the parlay. I'll just get back to work, then," said John, executing a perfect parade-ground about-face, with his coconut grenado still in hand.

"Only _you_ could find mind-numbing work to do on the last day of your life, while stranded on a deserted island," muttered the brunet under his breath.

John, who clearly heard every word, stiffened his already ramrod-straight back and marched away like a wind up soldier. Sherlock tsk'ed loudly, because John Watson could be _soooo stubborn_.

However, the doctor looked ridiculously adorable, stomping around in his red pants and stupid palm leaf hat.

And, regrettably, it was mostly Sherlock's fault that they were in this mess…almost entirely his fault really…

"Fine."

"Excuse me?" said John faux-mildly. It was a tone of voice that John usually used when dealing with serial killers, child abusers and Anderson. This mild voice was not a good sign at all.

"I said, fine," said Sherlock with a very dramatic sigh. He also batted his wide, innocent eyes, appealing to John's caretaker side, "It means I'm powerless to resist, so I agree to parlay."

"Fine," said the ex-army doctor suspiciously.

Sherlock stepped back over the boundary again.

"Stop!" ordered the little Napoleon. "Stay on your side of the island. And it's no use batting your eyelashes as me; it never works on me."

The detective harrumphed, because his puppy-eyes-ploy usually did work on John. Unfortunately, John was going to be more stubborn than usual. The innocent look faded from the younger man's face, leaving a hard crystalline eyes that narrowly appraised the unyielding soldier.

Sherlock sighed louder. Being a genius and a realist, he realized that he might have to fight with John until they died… or he'd have to submit and do this John's way. Either way it would no doubt be dull. He had to choose between a dull repetitive argument's which he could never win (because he was in fact, in the wrong) or a tedious admission of misbehavior (not guilt, never guilt) on the part of Sherlock followed by an even more tedious apology.

Time to decide.

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><p>Of course Sherlock had to yield.<p>

Sherlock was the dominant member of their team in almost every respect, except when John was fixated on a point of honor, or when there was a medical emergency or when the World's Only Consulting Detective truly fucked up.

In this case, there was no medical emergency. However, Sherlock had managed to fuck up royally and besmirch John's honor at the same time, so the blond soldier was unusually inflexible.

Of course the inevitable admission of misbehavior and the ensuing apology was indeed tedious, tedious to the point of pain.

And for some unaccountable reason, restitution included Sherlock staying in the shade on his side of the island while drinking the coconut milk provided by John, while the good doctor did all the pointless work, wearing himself out.

Possibly, thought the brunet, this form of punishment was designed to be so dull, that Sherlock would never misbehave again, which was in fact a very effective form of deterrent. On the other hand, perhaps John hoped to make Sherlock feel even guiltier, by watching John do all the work, this was not effective. Sherlock did not ever feel guilty about not doing pointless, dull work.

Aside from the obscure punishment of sitting in the shade, sipping coconut milk, the consulting buccaneer was forced into the verbal agreement which stated that any future seductions of witnesses or suspects or anyone connected to a case in anyway or anyone, anywhere, for any reasons heretofore unforeseen (John was very careful to leave no loopholes and to use obtuse legalese whenever possible)…anyway, any future seductions were to be undertaken only as a _last resort_ (to be determined by the party of the first part, which was John) and _no part of a consulting detective's body could touch the suductee at anytime, no matter what, _ipso facto, case closed_. _

This last point, the no bodily contact point, had been repeated several times by the bossy little doctor, just to be sure that they were both clear on this tedious point.

Tedious. Boring. Dull.

Yet Sherlock took it all quietly, carefully hiding most of his resentful looks.

Anything to acquire John's forgiveness and thus to get into his pants.

But so far, even this strategy was not working. And this was all so _stupid_, thought Sherlock with a mental whine and an audible sigh. He lusted resentfully and in vain after his scurrying little soldier, who was now apparently collecting trash.

All of John's _'work'_ a waste of time and _soooo stupid. _ Why plan for the future when he and John were doomed to death. Sherlock's stomach clenched in rebellion against the insipid coconut milk and the bitter thought of his blogger's death.

Sherlock desperately wanted to hold and shelter John, making love nonstop until their unavoidable deaths. Perhaps, if the stubborn blond would relent for just a few minutes, _perhaps_ he could shag John into a coma, perhaps he could shag them both into a coma, and then they could die in their sleep, and John could rest safely in Sherlock's arms until the bitter end.

Sherlock sighed yet again.

The doomed soldier marched purposefully back to his horde with more treasured trash, a bit wood and an empty plastic bottle. Sherlock sighed at the incredible irrationality of his favorite person on Earth.

John generously awarded a smile to the pirate who was actually staying put, staying safe and staying out of the way. The lanky genius was in his thinking pose, hopefully coming up with a brilliant solution out their desperate situation. Meanwhile the former army officer did the dirty work of keeping them both alive and well until said brilliant solution was revealed.

John adjusted his ingenious hat, then surveyed his pile of valuable salvage: wood and fiberglass from the launch, one life vest (torn and damaged but it would still float), an oar, two drenched candy bars, a plastic bag of granola bars (a bit soggy, but maybe they'd taste like oatmeal), a rotting apple (some of it might be edible, and if so, it would help prevent scurvy), his wet wallet, his ruined, wet mobile, an empty soda bottle and some bits of plastic, which were undoubtedly sea trash but might just come in handy…somehow.

It might all come in handy in the hours ahead. John glanced over at his now forgiven boyfriend who had left the shade to prowl around the beach like a trapped panther…or a trapped pirate.

The blond doctor actually felt much better, since he believed that Sherlock had not actually fucked the pirate bitch...well that was harsh, thought John. Maybe too harsh? No, not too harsh. Milady really was a b...

Right. Time to let all that go. John had accepted Sherlock's sincere almost-apology. Plus, it was a relief to know that Sherlock had agreed to both the 'no seducing except as a last resort' clause and the' no-touching of any suductee no-matter-what' clause of their verbal agreement, because Sherlock always kept his promises.

Now, thought the doctor, now that they had settled the new and _very stringent_ guidelines for seduction of anyone-who-was-not John Hamish Watson… well now they just had to escape this deserted island in the middle of the pacific before the pirates killed them. He was confidant that Sherlock would think of a safe way to get off this atoll, because Sherlock was the smartest man that John had ever met.

John sighed, waiting for the big reveal.

"John!" yelled Sherlock suddenly. "Come over here!"

John recovered from his musings, looked around hopefully for their miraculous rescue, then scanned the horizon for a threat, irrationally expecting to see an entire fleet of pirate ships, each flying the Jolly Roger at the mast-head. There was nothing but endless blue waves. No threats but no rescue either.

Doctor Watson looked at his tall, naked partner, who was recklessly risking sun burn again, while he stood ankle-deep in the surf playing with a fist-sized grey rock. This was a bit odd, since Sherlock found geology almost as useless as astronomy.

John squinted to see what had captured the genius's attention, hoping it was something that would help them achieve their escape.

"What?" asked the blond, trotting through the shallows, "What d'you have there, Sherlock?"

Sherlock carelessly tossed the weathered grey lump and John dove to catch it, dropping knees first into the lapping waves. It was a strange rock, thought John, trying to look as impressed as Sherlock clearly expected.

"Umm, what is it?" asked John, enjoying the cool water and tossing the strange rock in his hand. Strange, because it wasn't nearly as heavy as John expected and because it was smooth and waxy. "It's um...um..."

"It's ambergris!" announced the proud detective. "Floating gold!"

Ahh, a floating rock? John vaguely recalled hearing the term amber-grease before but he wasn't sure…He looked up to Sherlock for clarification but was immediately distracted by the pirate's proud private treasure, which seemed to stared at John.

"Umm. Hmm," said John, stumbling to a stand and trying to focus on the so-called floating gold and not the pirate's hanging jewels.

"It's beach cast ambergris," explained the detective, who pretended not be aware of John's sudden interest.

"Ambergris quite rare. This piece alone is worth hundreds of dollars, possibly much more depending on its quality. Of course the market price varies; I believe it is currently up," added Sherlock popping the final 'p' for emphasis.

"Up?" said John with a voice pitched up a bit higher than usual due to Sherlock's member, which was standing up at attention. "Yeah?" John squeaked, and then cleared his throat. "It's, um, it's not real rock, I suppose?" said John, losing interest in the rock in his hand as he studied Sherlock's rocks in the bush.

"Of course not, John," he rolled his eyes, but sensed that John was finally ready to give up his ridiculous resistance to sex on the beach. He decided to lull John into complacency, by impressing him with Sherlock's vast knowledge of the arcane. "Ambergris is a waxy substance which is formed inside the digestive tract of sperm whales. Ambergris is still used in some perfumes. It used to be used in candles and medicines, and, in the Middle Ages, it was used as an _aphrodisiac_."

There was no mistaking John's response that time. A lovely claret blush spread up the blond's chest as his dark blue eyes dilated even in the bright sunlight.

Sherlock's baritone deepened into the range that nearly always made John soft and pliant, except in the one area that always firmed up. "I do believe that it is uncommon to find ambergris here in the pacific. I can only imagine…"

"Well, if it's valuable, you better put it with your wallet," said John, unaccountably turning away "I have more work to do."

John had in fact, remembered his duty to keep them alive until Sherlock remembered how to be brilliant.

"I see," snapped Sherlock, his voice harsh with disappointment and frustration. Cockblocked again, he thought in despair. "Well, there's no point in saving the stupid ambergris, John. After all, we'll both be dead soon enough." The taller man prepared to lob the grey lump back into the sea.

John reached out, grasping the Sherlock's lean but well muscled arm.

"Humor me. Save your ambergreasy-thingy," said John, pulling the buccaneer's arm down. "We aren't dead yet, ya know. There's always a chance…"

"Surely you know by now that I am a realist, so this obstinately obtuse optimism is wasted on me," said Sherlock gravely. "We are trapped on this miserable excuse of an island with no food or water, no chance of escape or rescue, and we will soon be preyed upon by angry, vengeful pirates."

"Ah!" said John. "Yes. Well, as for escape, I've already made up a small bon fire, which we can light at a moment's notice and use for signaling, in case we see a plane or boat...as long as they don't look like a pirate's plane or boat," said the former army captain. "And I have a tiny bit of food…"

"Soggy granola bars?" asked the detective with a contemptuous twist to his lips.

"We'll eat that first in fact," said leader of the island's ruling military junta. "It'll taste just like oatmeal. You like oatmeal." Which was a bit of a stretch, since it smelled funny and Sherlock didn't like oatmeal anyway, but John was trying to be upbeat, to counter Mr. Fatalism's morose pronouncements. "And, maybe, I can try fishing tomorrow. Plus we still have plenty of coconuts. Later, I will construct a system to collect fresh water from evaporating seawater…"

"John, we will die at the hands of the pirates long before we starve to death."

"Ah. Yes. Well, I'm ready for your Milady too. I have way more rounds for my sidearm than she has thugs," said John optimistically. "We have a simple bunker, which I'm going to shore up, using my salvage, and then I'll build up the walls with sand and rock. See, I already dug down to make the trenches deeper, and I've made some crude weapons…"

"Your trench…your single trench… is a six-inch deep hallow, and if that stick is a weapon…"

"If you swing it hard enough, a stick can break bones. Or, you could poke somebody's eye out with it. The smaller rocks can be used as projectiles…"

"Milady's pirates have guns, rocket launchers…"

"Just the one rocket launcher and only three grenades…"

"And there are just too many pirates. You cannot possibly win against them."

"Well, I sure as hell can't win the battle if I surrender before it starts!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in thought, "Is that from Sun Tzu's treatise 'The Art of War'?"

"Um, no," said the blond, as his bluster gave way to blushing. "No, it's…it's from the mouth of yours truly. Um, I made it up just now. 'Course someone prob'ly said something like that before me but…mrffuph"

The older man was silenced by a fierce kiss, stolen by the pirate. Two large hands gripped the doctor's be-stubbled face, tilting his head back and knocking his ridiculous palm-frond hat off his head and into the waves.

Sherlock's self-control had crumbled in the face of his adorable soldier's earnest determination and of course his soldier's disarmingly modest blush.

The soldier, who luckily for Sherlock, did not know that he was secretly called Sherlock's adorable soldier, considered putting a stop to this buccaneer's chicanery. But...then he thought better of it.

Honestly, most of John's preparations were complete, aside from reinforcing the bunker and designing the potable water collection system…John heard himself moan when Sherlock abandoned his lips in favor of ravaging behind John's ear.

The tall seagoing miscreant had long ago mapped out all of John's erogenous zones. And… yes, oh yes. That felt…very good, really very, very good.

The little soldier (who, luckily, also didn't know that he was called the little soldier) decided that perhaps, it would be better for troop morale if John allowed a bit of shore leave; even pirates needed shore leave, right?

Chills burned their way down John's spine, as the tricky pirate nibbled on his neck. Yes, pirates deserved shore leave and soldiers deserved R and R and...

The detective buccaneer was careful not to show any sign of his smug satisfaction at his soldier's capitulation. Indeed, he was soon lost in the exploration of his adorable little soldier's solid little body. After all, it had been three days, five hours and some odd minutes since he had last had his hands on John's body and his lips on John's skin, and something might have changed.

It was a relief to see that all parts catalogued thus far were unchanged aside from the addition of salt and a few minor injuries. Each part of John was still perfect, especially that sensitive and oh-so-responsive bit of skin just below the mastoid bone behind John's ear.

It was gratifying to Sherlock, when his blogger not only melted into him but also returned his caresses.

John raised his tanned arms to coil his fingers into the brunet's unruly curls. The shorter man tilted his head back and sideways, so that their lips could engage each another again. There then ensued a brief battle, which the former RAMC captain was willing to forfeit- in the name of improved troop morale. He eagerly parted his lips, allowing the pirate to pillage his mouth.

John sucked on the slick muscle provoking a whimper from one man and a moan from someone else and humming…

Well, there was no doubt about it; this was definitely improving John's morale, and he mumbled something that was meant to be approval.

They broke apart for air, and the soldier shifted his feet so that he wouldn't fall down, while he greedily sucked in air.

Of course, the nefarious pirate took full advantage of John's unsteadiness and his need for air. Sherlock pressed his attack on the vulnerable blond; he bent his tall frame in order to lave the bruises and sunburn scattered on his blogger's chest with his clever tongue.

"Oh…Gawd! Sher…Sherlock," said John panting as a wicked tongue circled a sensitive nipple. "Maybe we could…shade…in the shade…lying down?" John couldn't really talk very well, because he couldn't really think very well, what with his moral being improved by the pirate.

Then, in the interests of fairplay, John felt he should improve Sherlock's moral too by polishing Sherlock's treasure, gently but firmly.

Sherlock groaned and stumbled, before thrusting himself into John's work-worn hands.

"Sherlock," the blond whispered as the pirate freed him from his red pants. "Sherlock! Not on the sand…shade? Trees? Lying down?"

"Mmmm," hummed the pirate, "And what happened to your determination to fight pirates, Captain Watson?"

"Oh, them…um, they're not here now…" said John, giving a cursory glance to the sea.

"Mmm, and what about me," said Sherlock, they dragged each other into the meager shade offered by the palm trees.

"Yeah? What? What about you? You taste...delicious," murmured John as he peppered a long statuesque neck with kisses and bites.

"I'm a pirate too; aren't I? Shouldn't you _fight_ me?"

John moaned as his brilliant boyfriend began applying friction down below…almost enough friction, almost… yet not quite enough.

"Sherlock…"

"Will you yield, John Watson?" teased the merciless pirate.

"Never!" said John, but without conviction. Instead, he dropped onto the brunet's half-built nest.

Winning seemed very much less important than getting his lips on Sherlock's lips, and on Sherlock's jaw and on those sculpted cheekbones.

"Maybe you…you… should surrender to me, Sherlock," teased John, thus proving that he hadn't _completely_ surrendered, not really.

"Idiot," said Sherlock. Sitting astraddle his boyfriend's firm thighs and taking John's face in his hands. "You stole all of me- you stole my heart and soul- long ago. What else could I possibly surrender?"

"Oh…" John was stunned by the unexpected and devastating salvo of sentiment from the notoriously logical buccaneer. "Oh…" he repeated as he sat up, blinking back the sudden tears. John hated it when his allergies acted up.

"Lay back down, John."

John dropped at once, he didn't think of it as surrender, so much as strategic maneuvering.

Sherlock's swollen red lips teased him again nipping and biting his lower lip; the beleaguered soldier's tongue fought for the right explore Sherlock's mouth, tasting coconut and tobacco (tobacco? When the hell had Sherlock gotten hold of tobacco?) John won that skirmish, only to succumb to Sherlock's talented long fingers, which began an assault on John's hidden treasure chamber.

John didn't think of it as surrender so much as…all right, it _was_ surrender.

Who was he kidding? Captain Watson was happy to admit defeat, because this brilliant pirate had magically found a packet of lube, and the doctor didn't even care why or how that pirate had lube on an empty island.

Sherlock's stormy thoughts were finally silenced when he boarded his blogger. John offered no resistance at all, indeed he eagerly ceded all his territory to the rapacious buccaneer. The consulting pirate ecstatically tasted, smelled, and listened to the music of John's lovemaking. He gratefully immersed himself in his lover's heat. His mind and body were in unison in the worship of John, pleasing John, utterly wrecking John with bliss.

John didn't mind the mild burn as the pirate claimed him utterly, oh no, welcomed the burn. And as the inferno raged, the former soldier relished the conflagration; he reveled in the mounting flames that consumed his vessel.

Sherlock fired last salvo, crying out his lover's name, and John blissfully went down with his ship, Sherlock's taste and name on his tongue.

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><p><strong>AN **I confess that I rushed uploading this chapter, but it was now or next week. I hope this copy isn't too rough. I really did proof read it several times. Really. However, please let me know if you find errors, so I can fix 'em.

Thank you to the folks who followed and favorited this story.

Thank you to those who reviewed for your interesting comments, lovely compliments and great suggestions. Thank you for the reviews from Qoheleth, TheVenturer, powe0girl and birdie7272.

And now for the ritual disclaimer. **Disclaimer**: I do not own the rights to SHERLOCK. Surprisingly, I will not profit financially from this fic either.


	3. Chapter 3

Rated M for swearing, references to smut and violence

Beware of gratuitous nautical references.

Do not consume grog or other beverages while reading fanfic as you may fall victim to an inadvertent nasal douche.

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><p><em>When we last left our indomitable heroes, John had bravely and quite happily chosen to go down with his ship after Sherlock had ruthlessly boarded him. In other words, despite immanent danger, the boys from Baker Street were in flagrante delicto, which means they shagged each other out…<em>

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><p><em>Chapter the Third<em>

Smoke drifted lazily out from between plush lips, before an errant breeze snatched it away, to be lost in the sun and sea and spray.

Sherlock enjoyed smoking the third-to-the-last cigarette from his secret stash; oddly, he also enjoyed watching the sun's brilliant trail glitter as it danced over the swells, which had taken on the deep, dark blue tint of John's eyes. To be honest, the water even sparkled like John's eyes.

The first pleasure was perfectly understandable-a simple matter of biochemistry. By inhaling tobacco smoke deeply, he had achieved moderately high blood levels of nicotine, thus stimulating the release of neurotransmitters, especially serotonin and beta-endorphin, both of which contributed to his feelings of contentment. Actually, these pleasurable sensations had been added synergistically to his post-coital euphoria, which itself was engendered by the release of oxytocin and more endorphins.

All perfectly predictable based on known biochemical and physiologic reactions.

The second reason for his contentment (dare he say 'happiness'?) made no sense at all. Finding enjoyment in the apparent colors of water, as the sun began its descent towards the horizon made no sense at all.

To compare the water to his blogger's ocular apparatus seemed trite, plebian even, (Just imagine what Mycroft would have to say such a sentimental lapse.)

Nevertheless, the comparison pleased the so-called pirate even more than the cancer stick, as John referred to cigarettes. Sherlock inhaled deeply, relishing the warm rush of smoke and losing himself briefly in the John's-eyes-blue of the sea.

Of course, the detecting pirate did not sleep, because he had trained his transport to require very little time-wasting slumber. However the sonorous waves and gentle breeze may have induced a very light doze. He jerked when his chin dropped to his chest, no doubt startling the doctor who was sleeping on what was left of the makeshift palm-frond bed. Actually, the fronds had pretty much scattered during the pirate's earlier boarding action against the blond soldier, who now reclined on sand and rock. At least, he had made his partner a pillow out of his shirt, thought Sherlock with no little satisfaction.

John blinked and turned his head away from the bright sunshine, rubbing his face.

"Wha' time 'zit?" mumbled John, his face half-hidden in the long shadows of lowering sun. The former soldier stretched and groaned, massaging his scarred shoulder first and then rubbing his sore backside, with a wry, bleary, one-eyed grimace at the consulting detective.

The pirate raised one dark brow and then smirked at John's slight_ discomfort_. Sherlock couldn't help but feel pride at this reminder of how thoroughly he had shagged his lover. He couldn't help but admire the purple and red love bites and that lovely claret-colored blush, now creeping up the blond's neck and into his face.

The blond couldn't help but blush as the dastardly buccaneer smirked and leered at him, reminding him of how thoroughly he'd been ravished. And how Sherlock had yelled his name, John's name, until it echoed over the waters…Yeah, John couldn't help but enjoy seeing the World's Only Consulting Pirate come completely undone as he made love to Three Continents Watson.

So, in spite of his blush, John returned Sherlock's smug smile of satisfaction. Then he groaned softy, as he tried sitting up. "Sherlock, remind me not to fall asleep on sand and volcanic rocks the next time we get stranded on a desert island."

"Mmmm, and is that why you're so sore?" Sherlock asked archly.

John did not bother to respond, aside from blushing even more.

"Why don't you go for a swim? I'm certain a good soak in the cool, refreshing water will soothe any soreness, hmm?" suggested the tall pirate, who pulled his sore companion up and into his arms for a quick kiss and a little nibble on an available ear.

"Yeah," said John, hugging his beloved buccaneer closely, even as he flushed even pinker with equal parts pleasure and embarrassment.

The older man leaned against his boyfriend and smiled idly at the swaying palms and then turned his face into the gentle breeze. The blond closed his eyes against the still-too-bright sunlight, inhaling the salt-tanged air.

It was like he and Sherlock were on some fantasy beach, thought Doctor Watson, and they were just waiting for a waiter to bring them fancy little drinks with stupid pink and green umbrellas.

Right. If he was thirsty, maybe he should open another couple of coconuts? And maybe he should think about how he was going to set up his potable water collection system?

He stepped out of Sherlock's warm embrace, and pursed his mouth at the twinge of complaint from his slightly abused bum.

Maybe a quick dip in the water would be a good idea.

Sherlock watched the infinitely interesting changes of expression on his John's face. It was so easy to read John's emotions: contentment, embarrassment, contentment again, thirst, satisfied discomfort (Oh yes, another reminder of Sherlock's sexual prowess!)

The breeze played in the soft spikes of John's sex-tousled hair (Yet another reminder!). The intense sunlight highlighted the golden stubble on his face and outlined his many creases and wrinkles, formed from John's ready smile combined with years of care and worry.

Sherlock could never wish those wrinkles away, despite John's occasional complaints about how old he looked. It was absurd, because the man was beautiful to Sherlock. And John Watson had never looked more beautiful to Sherlock, than he did now, standing in all his naked glory against the backdrop of the endless, John's-eyes-blue sea.

"It's sorta nice here, for a deserted island, yeah?" said John, thinking Sherlock was admiring the scenery.

The doctor admired his lover's lean but muscular physique. He didn't notice that his eyes dilated a bit as he scanned the pale expanse of skin stretched over a broad chest and strong shoulders. His hand stretched involuntarily to stroke the clean lines from chest down to narrow hips.

Right. Definitely time for a swim in the cool ocean before John lost himself in Sherlock's arms again, because there was work to be done. Right.

John nodded to himself and began marching purposefully to the narrow sandy beach. Well, he marched purposefully and just a bit carefully, in deference to certain sore…muscles.

"Hey, Sherlock!" called John over his shoulder, as he waded into the waves. "D'you think there are any sharks around here?"

"You mean aside from me?" asked the cheeky genius, covering his affection with his trademark snark.

"Yessss," hissed John as he settled in the cool water. "Oh, that smarts! Mmmmm…," said the blond with a long sigh. "What I'm talking about are the ones with fins and lots of teeth, not you, you git."

"No. No sharks," said Sherlock, but his grin faded as he realized that the danger of a shark attack was in fact a real possibility. Not likely, but... "Um, possibly," he added, as he frowned deeply at the thought of losing John to a stupid fish. "Actually, John, there could, possibly, be sharks. In fact, I think you've soaked for long enough…"

"No. Oh no, I'm not done yet," said John, who, after the first bit of stinging, felt great relief from bathing in the cool water. "No, this is the ticket. Feels great!" The blond lay on his back floating between oncoming crests of turquoise water. "Really, Sherlock, the water's great; and I was only kidding about the sharks!"

John began kicking his legs, which if Sherlock recalled, was a surefire way to attract predatory fish.

"John, stop splashing so much! And don't go out too far," called Sherlock, squinting his eyes against the dazzling water and watching for seagoing threats.

"Wasn't planning to, _mother_," teased the blond, who stood up in chest-high water, bouncing up with each rhythmic swell. He ducked his head and then sputtered, "It's really rather nice, Sherlock. Verrrry refreshin'…for shark infested waters. Why don't cha join me?"

John dove into a wave and disappeared for a count of twelve, Sherlock was already wading into the surf to rescue his lover from drowning or from the sharks or from the arms of a toxic cnidarian or...

The blond surfaced with a broad grin, wet a gasps and absurd little giggles.

"This was a wonderful idea, Sherlock!" said John, cavorting like a child now.

It was a stupid idea, thought the brunet. Sherlock hadn't planned on swimming, but he waded out further so that he'd be on hand to rescue John-just in case. He ignored the goose bumps and shivery chills caused by the wretched, gelid water. He pressed his lips together, as his partner splashed and dove into the menacing waves, while he was relegated to standing watch for shark fins, poisonous jellyfish and profoundly regretting his earlier ill-advised suggestion.

The small rational portion of his brain, which continued to function despite the neurotoxic sentiments, reminded him that Milady was much more of a threat to John than the supposed sharks or floating medusae. That clever remnant of brain matter, also informed the detective that Milady was, in fact, overdue, and that John was likely to die a horrible death in the next twenty-four hours.

That rational bit of his brain, which was very Mycroft-like, also insisted on reminding the detective that he, Sherlock Holmes, was the reason for John's imminent demise. Yes, Sherlock Holmes had been an idiot. It had been idiotic to challenge the notorious Milady alone and without back up.

Oh yes, sneered his brain, now that it's too late, lets finally be honest with ourselves; John was going to DIE thanks to Sherlock's insatiable curiosity and compulsion to prove himself right. He was idiot genius who would loose everything now, because that ridiculous blond soldier was his everything.

Sherlock certainly should have refused John's assistance in hunting the pirates. Instead, he should have insisted that John stay on board the cruise ship. Then John would have been safe and…

The younger man gasped as a cold wave slapped his chest and as John walked out of the blue-green waters, like a modern-day sea-nymph. The piratical detective couldn't help but ogle his dripping, blond lover and come up with ridiculously poetic metaphors to describe him.

Clearly, _feelings _had won the tide against that last bit of logically discriminating grey matter.

They had last coupled only an hour or two ago, but Sherlock still gazed longingly at his blond nymph, as the slanting rays of the sun turned each drop of water that graced his fit, tan body to gold.

Still smiling, and blissfully unaware that his partner was calling him a sea nymph, the blond dashed the water off his face and arms, as he craned his neck, trying to look at the purple love-bites administered by his pirate. He did notice Sherlock noticing him, and sucked in his slightly soft stomach, in order to look as fit as possible. He then shot Sherlock a broad grin, as they both walked back to the beach letting the still warm breeze dry them off.

Sherlock shared a fake grin with his ex-army doctor. He cudgled his mind, trying to think of a way to save John. He wondered if he should tell John to breathe normally and not worry about his tummy so much. Honestly, Sherlock loved John's soft tummy…

Wait, Sherlock remembered that he wasn't supposed to ever mention John's tummy; it always led to accusations that Sherlock was calling John fat, even though he didn't think John was at all overweight.

And wait…Sherlock was supposed to be worrying about surviving a pirate attack, not John's very small spare tire. Perhaps he could hide John and his delectable tummy. But how? They were on a tiny flat island, smaller than Magnussen's former estate. Still, what if he buried John in the sand? Or under the palm leaves or in the ersatz trench? It might work… With his soldier thus hidden, the piratical and dangerous-to-be-around detective could surrender himself up to Milady and her buccaneers.

Then, John would survive.

It might work…It had to work. Sherlock would gladly sacrifice himself for his blogger. Of course it would work…except…except the last time he only appeared to sacrifice himself for his blogger, by jumping off the roof of St. Bart's, it nearly killed John. John had almost not forgiven Sherlock. In addition, John still suffered from that debacle, in the form of nightmares and occasional bouts of PTSD. Would John even carry on if Sherlock died again? Of course he would…maybe. Or maybe not.

Maybe it was better for them to die together.

But John deserved to live.

Sherlock stifled a growl of frustration as his mind spun itself dizzy trying to solve the unsolvable.

"Hey, Tall, Dark and Handsome?" said John teasingly. The blond's easy smile faded, and he caressed the handsome young man's stubbly face, "Hey, Sherlock, what's wrong?"

The taller man didn't answer.

"What's on your mind?" John tried again. "Have you come up with a brilliant solution yet?"

"NO!" shouted the consulting detective, at the end of his rope. "No. No. NO! There's no brilliant solution this time, John! No deus ex machina! No secret plans to save your life! You are going to DIE here, because of me and my stupid attempts to be clever. Donovan was right; you should have tried another hobby."

"O-kayy," drawled John. He squeezed Sherlock's bicep encouragingly, even though he knew it was just as dangerous to pet an agitated consulting detective, as it was to pet an agitated panther. Luckily, Sherlock did not bite John's hand off, although the brunet did pull away to begin pacing like a nervous feline. sans swishing tail.

John scanned the horizon automatically, and chose to attempt deflection with humor. "Of course, you realize that what you just suggested is an impossibility." Sherlock stared incredulously at his partner's sly grin. "Yeah, I mean Donovan is _never _right, so yeah, when you said Donovan was right, it was practically an oxymoron."

Sherlock barked a humorless laugh, before adding, "Are you listening? We Are Going to Die. There is no brilliant solution…"

"Yeah, I got all that," said John, pulling his stiff, saltwater encrusted jeans back on. "You know, this is going to chafe something awful," he joked.

"John, we…you...there's no…"

"Yes, Sherlock. No brilliant plan…yet."

The younger man rolled his eyes at John's trust and naïveté.

John slapped a loaded magazine into his desert eagle, checked the safety was on, and shoved the gun into his waistband. The extra mag and rounds went into his pockets. The blond subtly checked to see if his abdomen stuck out; fortunately, the recent enforced fasting had deflated his spare tire. Right. Where were we, wondered John, after sucking his stomach in again.

"Look, Sherlock, you're wrong. Wrong about everything. Firstly, it's not all your fault that we might be attacked by pirates. I chose to be here with you. There is nowhere else I want to be. Secondly, I don't plan on letting us just sit down and die. See, there is actually a plan," said Captain Watson, "It's not brilliantly clever, and it isn't elegant. Actually it isn't a really good plan at all. 'Cause it's my plan. But it's a plan. Basically, we're gonna make our last stand here on the Watson-Holmes Atoll…unless you prefer to call it Holmes-Watson Isle or even Johnlock Island... "

"That's your plan? Give this bit of rock and sand a stupid name and then die trying to defend it in some stupid last stand?"

"Well...yes! And they're all pretty good names, I think. And I'm going to try not to let either of us die, although there are no guarantees…"

"John…I love you; that has to be said," said the younger man, sadly but earnestly. "But, I can _guarantee you_ that your last stand will be brief, painful and ultimately unsuccessful. No one in their right minds would consider such a strategy…

"Wrong," said John, searching the far horizon again. "If it was good enough for King Leonides and Davy Crockett …"

"If memory serves, they both died. The forces at Thermopylae and at the Alamo were wiped out and…" drawled Sherlock.

"And they died bravely, and they made a difference," snapped Captain Watson. "Wars were won because of the sacrifices made at those battles."

"John…"

John was scowling. He growled, "I intend to die with my boots on…"

"You lost your shoes in the wreck."

"Dammit! And damn my boots! And damn your self-pitying lets-surrender-to-the-scary-Pirate-Lady attitude," spat the fierce, former army captain, like an enraged, spiky-haired alley cat. "Look, I…we have a bunker; we can defend it. I have a gun. I have ammo. I have some spears…"

"Broken planks of wood…"

"THEY HAVE SHARP ENDS!" shouted the aggressive army cat, raising one of his ersatz spears threateningly. "And _that_ makes 'em spears. And I have rocks and coconuts to throw, which makes 'em dangerous projectiles. And I have a penknife. AND if memory serves, you have an identical penknife 'cause we bought 'em in Okinawa together. Anyway, that means we have dirks!" said John with violent satisfaction.

Sherlock stepped back from his spear-wielding companion. "All right," said the brunet cautiously.

"All right then!" agreed the testy little captain, assuming he'd finally won his companions support. "Now, get your goddam trousers on, Sherlock and give me a cigarette. I know you still have some."

"You don't smoke."

"I wasn't going to smoke it, obviously!" snarled John, Sherlock blinked, because this was not obvious at all.

The blond sighed in extreme exasperation, "Look, Sherlock, I like to have a cigar in situations like this," explained the tyrant, as if this should have been self-explanatory. "Too bad for me, we don't have any cigars, so I need a fag." He held out his hand, expectantly.

Sherlock picked up his stiff, grimy trousers and extracted the last two cigarettes, giving one to his non-smoking companion.

John jammed the cigarette between his lips. He started dragging of the rest of his 'salvage' over to his so-called bunker.

The blond looked up, talking expertly around the cigarette, as if he always he had a fag hanging from his mouth, "Look Sherlock, as much as I admire your shapely arse…and I do admire it," said John, while wagging his expressive brows, "I'd really like you pull your trousers on and maybe your shirt or shoes, if you're so inclined. 'Cause there's boat out there, and I'm thinkin' it's your pirates. So all hands on deck! And battle stations!"

Sherlock squinted and spied the boat, he was certain that it was in fact The Diadem, Milady's yacht. He pulled his stiff trousers on morosely. They were both going to die very soon, while wearing trousers that chafed. It was still all Sherlock's fault, no matter what John said, and instead of a last minute shag before death, John was scurrying about while uttering the most ridiculously trite statements, as he labored under the twin delusions that they could survive this catastrophe and that John could speak like a sailor.

"You're battle station is right here," ordered Captain Watson, tugging his ambivalent pirate behind the barrier of the makeshift bunker. The hesitant buccaneer grimaced at yet another nautical allusion.

"Yes, yes, yes," muttered Sherlock, "Oh, John, 'you forgot to say damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead," said the snarky detective-pirate.

"Damn you for a lubber!" snapped John. "Let's hope they _don't_ have any bloody torpedoes." The blond pulled nervously at his lip, gazing at the still distant yacht and worrying about torpedoes.

"John, I think I should tell you that the odds of surviving…"

"Sherlock! SILENCE! Silence fore and aft!"

"What?"

"Shut it!" said John, keeping his head just above the rocks and eyeing the boat. It was definitely closing in." Just give me a kiss for luck; then keep your head down and your mouth shut…unless you suddenly think of how we're getting out of this. Then, of course you can talk," said the dictator magnanimously.

Sherlock was about to argue the futility of kissing for _luck_. However, kissing John for any reason could not be declined, especially if it might be their last kiss.

He dragged the blond down into the so-called trench, and onto his lean chest. Lips met and slid past each other. John temporarily lost his cigarette. Teeth clashed; tongues battled with obscene moans on both sides. Hands gripped damp hair and sticky sandy skin. There was chafing. Sherlock reveled in the taste of his beautiful soldier. John inhaled the salt, smokey, musky smell of his gorgeous lover. The grappled together in a last bid to bind to one other for all eternity with this final embrace.

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><p>Gentle reminder: reviews are greatly and gratefully appreciated: D<p>

Thank you to those who follow or favorited this fic, :D

Thank you for the wonderful reviews for the second chapter from TheVenturer and power0girl.

Disclaimer I don't own the rights to SHERLOCK but would like to. Let me know if you think you know how to accomplish this. I'd offer them my life savings, but that wouldn't cover the price of my trans-Atlantic ticket to get to London, so... LOL :D


	4. Chapter 4

Rated M for swearing, homophobic remarks, attempted seductions and violence (not particularly graphic violence but deaths are referred to).

Beware of gratuitous nautical references

Do not consume grog or other beverages while reading fanfic.

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><p>Chapter the Fourth<p>

_At the end of the third installment, John had almost convinced Sherlock that fighting for their lives against insurmountable odds was preferable to dying in the middle of sex. Which was a good thing because the pirate ship, The Diadem was approaching the aptly named, Johnlock Isle..._

John and Sherlock crouched behind the rocks as two inflatable rafts, each carrying six scurvy buccaneers, motored toward the shore. The sleek grey yacht, The Diadem, rode nearly a kilometer offshore, safely away from the reefs and safely out of range of John's handgun.

"Well, John, I suppose you need to find the range?" said Sherlock, "Perhaps if you fire a warning shot?"

He'd no sooner spoken, when John fired.

"I think it went to the left of the first boat…"

"I can see that Sherlock," murmured John, who was motionless as he lined up a target.

"Milady," shouted Sherlock, now that they surely had the pirate's attention. He stood, and John blanched, as his lover presented a perfect target for any sharp shooter. "I suggest…a parlay!" His deep voice boomed louder than the incoming surf.

"NO!" yelled Milady, standing in the back of a raft. "You give me the drives, maybe…I let you live."

"Yes! Yes! Fine!" agreed Sherlock, trying to buy time.

"Liar!" shrieked the svelte, black clad pirate. "You lost them when you wrecked my little launch, you fool! All that money lost! And for what?" Her voice dripped with with acid. "Are you happy with your little whore-son faggot? Are you happy with your faggoty little old man? I bet he can't even get it up! Are you happy with your worn out, wrinkled old, prune-bellied…"

"Ignore her, John," said Sherlock, dropping down behind the rocks, except for the top of his head as he watched the boats come in. "She's just jealous because you're worth a thousand of her kind…And I do believe they're getting ready to shoot, John," he added with urgency.

"Yeah, I can see that, Sherlock," murmured John, from around his soggy, chomped on cigarette. He kicked his partner's leg, unbalancing the gangly detective, so that he fell down, safely behind the rock barrier.

With Sherlock temporarily safe, John could breathe easy again. Now, the former soldier could actually concentrate on his job. John ignored Sherlock's complaints, Milady's diatribe and the sweat dripping down his face and neck. He corrected his aim as the boats closed in.

"You could have had me! The greatest pirate and the most beautiful woman in this hemisphere!' shrieked the painted trollop, who proved that a scorned woman was in fact more furious than anything born of hell, "But you! You Sherlock! You chose that short, squat, ugly, old, toad-faced faggot doctor. That, stupid, useless faggot…"

"Dear Lord, she's not only offensive, but she's repetitive and dull," said Sherlock, wisely keeping his head down before John punched him. Then he yelled, "You are not beautiful. And you are two years older than John. And, You! Repel! Me!"

Milady cursed in Filipino and Malay.

John cursed because he had nursed a vague hope that Milady would be lenient with his consulting paramour/detective. Well, that hope had just been keelhauled and then forced to walk the plank, thought the former army doctor.

Several shots were fired from the lead raft, only one round came close to John's ersatz bunker, sending up a cloud of sand and shells.

"I can't listen to her venom any longer," said Sherlock under his breath. "Just shoot her, John," he ordered.

John blinked, unsure when Sherlock had usurped command. Still, an order was an order, and the former captain fired, winging Milady on the left, which given the distance and the erratic wind wasn't too shabby, thought the doctor, who was two years younger than Milady. Not that John cared about such matters.

Naturally, she collapsed like a mainsail in a dead calm. Of course, she shrieked like a banshee and cursed like a sailor, which, John reflected, she was.

Sherlock ducked when he received a warning glance from Captain Watson, as the fire from the boats intensified. John himself kept up a slow but steady rate of firing. The scent of gunpowder and the heft of a firearm in his hand grounded him, calming him. He aimed carefully, marshalling his ammo.

The blond aimed for the rafts, a much easier target than any one pirate. He hit the first raft; he hit a pirate. The bastards were getting closer. Then he was forced to close his eyes, as near hit blew shrapnel and dust into his face. He nailed the forward raft again, wondering why the damned thing wouldn't sink. He aimed again in the failing orange light…as shrapnel hit the side of his face.

"John, get down!" shouted Sherlock. who reached out ready to drag his partner lower.

"Wait!" growled John, from behind his fixed grin. The former soldier fired again, hitting the raft and possibly another pirate. That was a two-for-one bonus shot. John smiled grimly around his cigarette.

The lead raft was sinking after all, and it had reversed course. Milady's raft had already turned tail, shortly after she was shot. Shockingly, the buccaneers were in retreat.

John fired three more rounds, hitting one pirate in the head quite by accident, and hitting the near raft and then Milady's raft one time each.

Without warning, the raft closest to the island suddenly lost it's desire to be a boat, it swamped on an incoming swell and went under, the men were adrift, yelling and screaming, fighting to stay afloat. It occurred to John that perhaps some of them couldn't swim.

In fact, one of them promptly went under water, while the rest swam for the retreating raft. John felt a bit sick watching a man drown, even if he was pirate scum.

He saw the flash from the Diadem.

"Incoming!" yelled John, diving on top of Sherlock. The RPG shrieked overhead and landed in the ocean behind them. Water and debris rained down, stinging as it hit.

This was just like Afghanistan, thought the former army doctor. This was just like the day when the Taliban fired rockets into the camp. Hitting the hospital, hitting everything. They'd been pinned down for hours, sitting ducks…just waiting to die.

"Fuck," muttered John, his heart pounding, trying to escape his chest. His arms tightened around the man cradled beneath him, trying to protect him, but if the rockets hit close enough…

"Shite, fuck, damn," muttered John.

"John?" said Sherlock, sounding very far away. "John it's hard to breath like this."

"Fuck," said John trying to breathe at all, when he knew there at least two more rockets on that ship . "Just stay down. Stay d…."

Another round screamed in. The explosion seemed to be right on top of them. Sand and shards of rock blasted into the bunker. John felt the shrapnel hit his arm, and his side.

"Fuck, fuck, Jeeeeze, fuck…Jeeee-sus," muttered John, over and over, waiting for the last bloody round to finish them off.

"JOHN!" yelled Sherlock. "Let me up!"

"No," refused John. "Nope. No, there might be more...um, more rockets."

"It's been quiet for over ten minutes," said the detective. "I need to see what's happening."

"Ten?" asked John, confused. "Ten minutes?" His ears still rang a little from the blast. His heart was still trying to claw its way out…he still couldn't breathe. Ten minutes? And the pirates still had another rocket, didn't they?

The younger man began squirming, rolling over to face John.

"You have to let me up now, John," said Sherlock slowly, as if John was a cretin. John hated when people talked like that. "It's fine. It's all fine now. You protected us from the pirates, and you protected us from the rockets. It's fine."

Sherlock repeated his reassurances as he worked methodically to wriggle out from under his partner. Wide eyed, John sat up with him, both keeping their backs to the rocks.

"John, there's fresh blood on your face and arm," said Sherlock, gripping the blond's chin to turn his face, looking for any serious wounds.

"Shrapnel," whispered John, so the pirates wouldn't overhear…which he knew was stupid. Captain John Watson had to get a grip on himself. He drew in a long, shuddering breath as Sherlock ran his hand gently down his arm.

"It's hard to see in this light, but it seems like they're all small cuts, a few splinters," muttered Sherlock, angered that John had been hurt at all.

"Yeah," agreed John. "Nothing serious… Just have to… try to clean them out later." He dropped his head back against the rock. '_Dammit'_, thought John, 'I have to get myself under control.'

"Are you hurt anywhere else?"

John shook his head no. Then he asked, "You? You all right."

"I'm fine John, as I said, you protected me," he smiled for his battered mate, relieved to see John nod, and lick his lips, trying to smile back.

Sherlock could easily see that John was on the edge of a panic attack or worse, a flashback. He wanted to take the man into his arms to shield him from the world, but John hated to be coddled, especially when he was fighting his personal demons.

Mouth held in a grim line, Sherlock kept one hand on his soldier's shoulder to continue to reassure John, and to be able to grab him if John suddenly bolted. It had happened once before on a case. Still, John seemed to be less tense, his breathing slowing bit by bit.

The taller man nodded to himself, then carefully peaked around the rocks, to assess the pirate vessel. A raft, half-deflated, rode low in the water next to the sleek, predatory Diadem. The yacht shone like burnished gold in the bloody light of the setting sun.

Holmes counted seven people on deck, one who appeared to be wounded, requiring the rough assistance of another crewmate. Milady herself was sprawled on a chair, legs kicked out to the sides. There were two crewmen in attendance, perhaps giving her first aid? The way she swung her arms around, striking anyone within range, argued that her wound was minor, and that she was having a tantrum instead.

John, his breathing now under control, slowly began to kneel; he wanted to look at the ship too.

"Stay down," said Sherlock, sinking down next to the blond. "We should take care of your cuts…"

"Never mind me! Keep an eye on the bloody pirates," said John. "They may try to flank us. That's what I'd do. That's what they should'a done to begin with. Your precious, bloody, oh so intelligent pirate trollop, isn't so bloody good at strategy after all. She didn't think of outflanking us. She could've had us, if she'd out flanked us," said John, fisting his hands in frustration and anger, not to mention his embarrassment at being called an old, used up whatever. "Bloody, stupid pirate, with her bloody RPG's and…"

Sherlock rose, ignoring John's outraged complaints, and he peered at the Diadem again. It seemed to be moving further away from the island. The raft was being hauled up, pirates ran back and forth on the deck. Surely they weren't giving up. Milady was not the type to surrender easily. Perhaps they were repositioning?

"Apparently, your resistance made Milady very angry," said Sherlock. "She seems to be having quite the tantrum on deck."

"Good. I'm glad she's angry, the stupid, psychopathic trollop."

"Trollop?" asked Sherlock with amusement.

"Yeah, she's a trollop," said John. "And, I'm sorry I only hit her in the arm. I'm sorry I missed her stupid big fat mouth," groused the blogger.

"Ah," said Sherlock, slipping his arm around his agitated blond. "Which has you more upset the rockets or the insults?"

John scoffed irritably, but didn't answer, because they both upset him. The sound of distant rifle fire resounded over the water; none of the rounds came close to the so-called bunker.

"Potshots. Now they're firing potshots," pronounced the captain. "They're idiots. It's a stupid waste of ammunition."

"I presume we'll need to stay down behind the rocks," said Sherlock.

"Well, _of course_ we have to stay _down_," John said. "As long as they keep shooting…"

"Well then," said Sherlock. "It would appear that the potshots are an effective deterrent. Plus there's always a chance they could get lucky and hit one of us. Plus they provide a psychological boost to the enemy and hurt our own moral. This would indicate that Milady is in fact employing a sound strategy…"

"Oh yeah, take her side! Y'know, I forgot..." said John scathingly, "...s_he's_ a bloody genius who can do no wrong. I don't know why you're cowering here under the rocks with a bloody, used-up, small-brained old man, when you could be cavorting with a sexy, wonderful pirate-lady who is intellectually stimulating…"

"John, the shrapnel has damaged your small brain," said Sherlock, fighting to keep John in place, next to him. "John! That was meant to be a joke!"

"Well I thought we agreed that jokes didn't suit you!" said John, subsiding next to his companion.

They stared out at the horizon, as the bloated red sun floated on the burning water, seeming to bob on the gentle swells before sinking into the waters, extinguishing the fiery star all at once. The water still smoldered orange and red, reflecting the conflagration in the sky.

"John," began Sherlock again. "I merely pointed out the benefits the pirates might accrue by taking potshots at us. It was not meant as praise to Milady." The younger man wrestled a moment to hold his soldier in place. "While I freely admit that I admired her intelligence, I was repelled by her gross attempts at seduction, her complete lack of morals…yes, I do pay attention to morals, John. Even I am appalled at her complete lack of concern for the pain, suffering and deaths caused by her actions."

"Since when have you cared about morality? I thought you were above that caring lark?"

"Since I met you, obviously," said Sherlock, looking askance at his idiot . "To be honest, John, I generally don't care about other people a great deal, even now. But I do care a_ bit_, because of you. And it should be obvious that I care when anything involves you. Surely you know that I care a great deal about you."

'Oh, well…"

"And John, you are not old. You are far from used-up, and, compared to the vast majority of humans, you are even fairly intelligent."

"Oh well, fairly intelligent," said John, a smile threatening to break his scowl. "Quite the compliment."

"Don't let it go to your head, John. You still behave idiotically much of the time."

John had stopped trying to pull away, and the brunet tightened his hold on his idiotic lover. "And John," he rumbled in the older man's ear, "surely you realize by now that I find you beautiful. You are beautiful on the inside; I am frequently overwhelmed by your bravery, loyalty, kindness and your wisdom. And before you complain about your _looks_, know this, I never seem to tire of looking at you; I crave you; I can never get enough of you-from your soft, spiky hair…"

"It's not spiky!"

"It is sometimes, especially after I shag you senseless."

John couldn't think of anything to say; Sherlock assumed, correctly, that the man was blushing.

"And I love your eyes. They show so much. They show caring, pain, determination and bravery. And they get that special look sometimes, but only when you look at me. They shine then, just for me…and I get lost in them."

"And you once said you didn't do romance," said John, his voice cracking a bit with emotion.

"That wasn't romance; those are facts."

"It was romance," said the blond, his lips pursing. "_You_ just romanced me."

Sherlock considered this, "Was it effective?"

"Yup."

"Then I don't care if you call it _romance_," said Sherlock with a smirk. Then he added with a sideways glance, "Are you sufficiently romanced to engage in another act of copulation?"

"No! Sherlock! We have to keep watch for their next move," said John scrambling away from that tall, dark temptation, who had rekindled a fire deep inside him yet once more.

"What if I catalogued what I like about your gorgeous body, John?"

The soldier tried to ignore the man intent on seducing him. John peered at the pirate ship, it should have been difficult to see the grey yacht in the gloaming, but they had lights strung out all over the ship.

Of course, if they were clever pirates, they might send a small raft or dinghy around the back of the island in a flanking maneuver; that's what John himself would do…  
>"John, you're talking out loud again. I strongly suspect that they will not try your flanking maneuver tonight, and I for one, think we should take advantage of the lull. To start with, I could give you a blow-job…"<p>

"No!" snapped John, who, sadly, had already begun to firm up. He really could use that blow-job too… …but, no. No, it was his job to defend Johnlock Isle from the cutthroat pirate scum, that darkened the waters surrounding the tiny atoll. "I'm keeping watch," said the older man stubbornly. "In case they…"

"Well, _right now_, Milady seems to be having one of the crew flogged. I don't think that she's planning on _flanking us_ right now."

"What? Christ they really _are_ flogging that poor man! How can they do that? It's the twenty-first century for God's sake," hissed the soldier.

Doctor Watson pondered the pirate ship for several minutes, biting at an uneven nail. "I don't understand. Why attack her own crew? Why doesn't she attack us?"

Sherlock attempted to answer, but his agitated companion cut him off.

"I wonder what she's waiting for?" continued John "D'you think she's waiting for full dark? That would make sense. I bet she is. I wonder when moonrise is? What the hell is the phase of the moon, anyway? This damned watch doesn't show the moon's phases, besides I think it's broken. Does yours work?"

"No. But I really don't think she's going to make a move until daylight. You hurt her just now, literally and figuratively, and she wasn't expecting that. She knows we're stuck here. Why should she make a risky move when she can wait until dawn?"

John used the dwindling twilight to count his remaining rounds-seventeen. He carefully watched for the expected flanking maneuver, which did not appear, and he tried to plan for the next attack. He also refused to allow Sherlock to light up his last cigarette, because, John said, 'your glowing cancer stick could be used by the pirate scum to target us'."

Sherlock pointed out that John had recently stuck a cancer stick in his own mouth. John muttered some tasteless remarks about pirates and consulting detectives.

Sherlock offered to give John something else to satisfy his oral fixation, which would have the dual benefits of relieving Sherlock's boredom and silencing John's rude language.

John stormed off to the end of the bunker. The storming was less effective than usual since the far end of the bunker was only two feet away.

Once the public flogging was over, the pirates finished off the evening with a feast, which included lots of food and drink, loud music and gunfire. Guns were fired in the air and sporadically raked the islet, but no more rockets were launched.

"That is obvious psychological warfare," announced John, "And since we know that's what it is, it won't work. Anyway, we have plenty of provisions. Have a piece of chocolate, Sherlock and then some coconut water."

After their tiny snack, Sherlock assumed his thinking position, since sex was off the table for now. John resumed his careful watch of the Diadem, while chewing on some fresh coconut. The coconut countered Milady's psychological tactics, because as long as John had plenty of coconut, then he wouldn't be hungry. If he wasn't hungry, he wouldn't succumb to Milady's ridiculous mind games.

John's stomach growled, which disturbed the genius's thinking and led to John storming off to the other end of the bunker.

After fifteen or twenty minutes, the last streaks of violet had disappeared into the now glittering firmament. The blond said, "This is exactly when she should attack us, cause it's dark and we've been lulled into a false sense of security."

His companion declined to answer.

After another fifteen minutes, the doctor added, "I bet she's saving that last grenade for when she flanks us, which could be any minute now," he thrust his chin out obstinately, expecting disagreement. Actually, given his level of tension, he welcomed a bit of a row.

"Mmm," agreed Sherlock, calmly who was reclining with his head in John's lap, as he considered all their options and the likely results of any intervention.

"Right," said John, disappointed of his row. He pushed the detective off his lap, none to gently, hopeful of getting a cutting remark that could instigate a small argument, but his hopes were dashed yet again.

"Well," he said bracingly, "I have to reconnoiter and see if they're sending out a boat to flank…"

"John, they are not going to do anything tonight. No doubt everyone on board is either drunk or high or both. Now, we have about eleven hours before they…"

"Before they flank us. I'd guess it'll be less than ten hours. The way I see it, they'll probably turn out all the lights just before dawn, then they'll leave the raft as a decoy and to cover the forward approach with armed marksmen. Meanwhile, they'll send the yacht round the back in a classic flanking maneuver and…"

"John. We cannot wait until morning."

"What?"

"I have been thinking."

"Yeah, I figured that out...Wait, you thought of something-a brilliant solution!" John's voice rose with his sudden excitement.

"Obviously. Now, don't interrupt, John; it's annoying. "You were the one who has insisted on fighting them, and so far, you've managed to out gun them with a single side-arm, which I must say has been most impressive. I intend to see if I can get you awarded some kind of medal for sharpshooting and bravery under fire or whatever they call it. Maybe I can make Mycroft offer you a baronetcy or a knight hood too. Anyway, you were spectacularly successful. Obviously, they'll be more cautious in the future. They may even try your flanking maneuver; they'll certainly use overwhelming firepower. You have what, twenty rounds left?"

"Seventeen."

"Well, that won't be enough to repel a determined attack, especially on two fronts. Therefore, I propose that we do the unexpected."

"Here, here! I agree," said John confidently, keeping a weather eye on the crafty buccaneers. "But, umm, what… what are you planning?" he asked, looking towards the shadow of his lover.

"We bring the battle to them, Captain Jack."

"What?' exclaimed John his voice rising in pitch. He swallowed and scanned the horizon for tricky piratical flanking maneuvers, before asking, "How? They're over a mile off. We don't have a boat, and we'll never be able to swim that far. And we have no weapons-aside from one gun, two knives and some spears and rocks…Well, all right. I guess we do have weapons. But there's seventeen of them on that boat, compared just us two."

"Fourteen. One shot, two drowned. Plus three of the remaining are injured. One quite seriously, I suspect. Oh and two more were flogged, they'll be injured and probably resentful of Milady...thus several pirates will not be in full fighting form. By my estimate, there will only be eight able-bodied fighters." Sherlock grinned broadly, but his smile faded upon seeing his companion wrinkle his face in dismay.

"Jesus. I killed three already?"

"Don't spare them a thought," said Sherlock, even though he knew John would fret internally over deaths of the buccaneers for days to come, assuming he could keep John alive that long. "John, they are quite literally a band of cutthroats. They tried to kill you twice, and now they're after me as well. They would probably like to capture me and torture me before killing me, but still, same outcome."

Sherlock well knew that the last bit would turn the tide for John Watson, whose face fell into a black study, the crease between his eyes had never looked so deep to the detective.

"Wait…What if we surrendered, she _might _take you back...if you apologized for those insults. You could blame me! You could say I forced you to say it. It might give you a chance..."

"The stress has damaged your already suboptimal brain. I would sooner damage my own superior brain, before I'd abandon you." Long fingered hands gripped John's stubbled, frowning face with bruising force. Sherlock tipped his blogger's face up until he could see the unhappy frown and starlight reflected in dark eyes. "Listen to me, John Watson. I do not choose to face a life without my conductor of light, so kindly avoid uttering such nonsense in the future. Now, you're the one who keeps saying we have to fight until the end. This is the best way for us to succeed. Now... I was content to end it all with you in my arms…and I will do so if that's what you choose to do," the brunet sighed deeply. "I will do whatever you want, as long as I can keep you by my side."

"Oh, God…Sher…Sherlock, I'm not worth...I'm no one. I'm ordinary, and frequently boring," John scrubbed his face, before trying again. "I don't know how I ever came to deserve you."

"Idiot! You deserve infinitely more than a rude, obnoxious, know-it-all for a partner, who repeatedly drags you into dangerous waters. Sadly, I'm also incredibly selfish and willing to keep you, even if I don't deserve _you."_ Sherlock's forehead rested against John's. Their breaths mingled in the cooling sea breeze.

John gripped Sherlock's strong, lean biceps, asking, "Okay then. And if we attack their yacht, what then?"

"That's obvious, Captain Jack."

"It's not obvious to me."

"We take the ship, John!" the younger man said. "We pirate it right out from under them."

"We do?"

"Yes, of course," Sherlock refrained from calling John an idiot out loud. "I suppose it that fails, we blow it up."

"With what? With seventeen rounds of…"

"John, I'm hurt. Have you forgotten that I'm a chemist. I can make almost anything blow up. But given the intoxicated state of the crew, and the fact that numerous firearms still litter the deck, and the fact that I know exactly where the fuel tanks lie... it should be easy enough to make it go _boom_."

"Maybe they're faking their drunkenness. It could be a trick to lull us into a sense of false security before they try to out flank us…"

"John! If nothing else, a direct attack on the boat will prevent them from executing this so-called flanking maneuver," said Sherlock sternly, but still keeping John's face next to his. "Choose, love, either we swim out and take the Diadem or we make ourselves comfortable for a night of mind-blowing sex, so that when they come in the morning, you'll be...we'll be too blissed-out to even care."

"But what if we have to kill all of them…"

"So what?" the genius almost whined. "Murderers, John! They are murderers and kidnappers and terrorists. Remember that village!"

"Right," said John.

"And they want to kill _us!"_

"Yes. Okay," breathed John, brushing off his filthy trousers. "Okay," he repeated. "If you think this can work; we'll go out there and take the ship or blow 'em out of the water, and no matter what, we'll die together…"

"I do not intend to let you die, John."

"Well, I'm not going to let you die. I'm never doing that again. Never."

"Yes, yes, yes," said Sherlock studying the Diadem.

"I'm serious, Sherlock. You mean more to me than…Dammit, you know I'm not any good talking about my feelings. But, Sherlock, you…" John pursed his lips in that annoyingly adorable way that he had. "You mean more to me…than…than anything. I…I…"

"I know, John. I almost always know what you're thinking and feeling. Now let me study the situation one last time."

"Yeah, okay," agreed John, relieved to not have to share his feelings right away.

The revelry had already started to die down. Milady was off the deck and there were fewer lights. Someone being noisily sick over the side. A man was hosing down the deck. "The first thing we'll do is drop that lifeboat in the water. After that, our plan's simple. Disarm them one by one and make them walk the plank. If we scare them enough, they'll flock to the raft, instead of re-boarding the yacht. It's so simple; it's guaranteed to succeed. The cleanup is almost over, the tide has turned which will make our swim over to the yacht that much easier. We'll leave in about thirty minutes."

"Yeah. It could work," said John. "Yeah. I knew it! I knew you'd come up with a brilliant plan, if I just kept us alive long enough. "

The brunet shook his head but still smiled smugly at his loyal admirer.

John smiled tightly at the darkly dangerous pirate wanna-be that was his lover. Sherlock's tousled curls blew in the cool sea breeze; his silvery eyes sparkled in the light of a thousand distant suns. He was gorgeous and brilliant. At least once a day, John fell in love all over again with the World's Only Consulting Pirate. Today, he'd fallen in love with Sherlock Holmes twice already, this made it the third time.

"Now I remember what I wanted to say," he told the younger man, with a chaste but heartfelt kiss. "I love you."

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><p>Reviews are greatly appreciated :D<p>

Thank you to those who follow or favortited this fic, :D

Thank you to power0girl for reviewing Chapter 3.

Thank you for the wonderful words of encouragement from power0girl and SamuelE8688.

Disclaimer I don't own the rights to SHERLOCK, but would like to.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter the Fifth**

Sherlock swore silently using his partner's favorite curses. He should have realized that the plan was doomed to failure before they even reached the ship. Fighting through the breakers had worn them out. Now it was a struggle for them to keep kicking forward, as they each clung onto the single damaged life vest that kept their heads above water.

Surrendering to be killed by the pirates after a night filled with sex and bliss would have been preferable to this.

'Sodding bloody hell,' thought Sherlock as a rising swell splashed his face full of salt water.

"Sher..lp," said John.

"Oh speak up, John," snapped Sherlock. "I can't understand a…word…you're…...John? John!"

Sherlock looked desperately around. No John. Just open ocean and a distant grey yacht. What if…

He wrenched himself around, towards the sounds of splashes only couple feet away. He dove forward and reached out to grab a handful of fine hair, pulling his spluttering doctor up for air.

"John! What the hell?"

"Shhh. Shhhh."

"Are you trying to breathe, say my name or shush me?"

"Y-y-yessssh," hissed the doctor.

The younger man pulled his lover up against his chest. The small man was curled against him, warm and alive yet trembling.

"John, explain now! What's wrong?" he whispered harshly in John's ear. Nothing terrified him like almost losing his only friend and lover.

"Cr-cr-cramp!" John half sobbed.

"Well, doctor, what should we do about it?" demanded Sherlock.

"D-don', don' know."

"You're the doctor, think of something."

"E-e-electrolytes? Hot sh-shower?"

"Idiot!" muttered Sherlock angrily. Nothing made him angrier than getting terrified by almost losing his best friend. Still, his medical advisor was compromised so Sherlock would have to think of the solution. "Look John, just rest on top of me for awhile,"

"N-n-nooo."

"Y-y-yes," said Sherlock, who imitated John's stutter because nothing made him more snarky than getting angry because he was terrified at the thought of losing John.

"Shut up!"

"Huh?"

"I said shut up! I know you; you were going to argue," said Sherlock. "All right, I still have that floating piece of trash that you called a life jacket. We'll rest, with you on top, until the cramp lets up, hmm?"

"And John,"

"W-what?"

"If you even start to suggest that I leave you and continue on my own, I will personally destroy each an every jumper that you own as soon as we return to London."

"I, um…I didn't...I-I wasn't."

"Well, don't, because I know you thought about it."

"Not really," muttered John, into the detective's chest.

"You did," accused the detective

"Only for a second."

"Idiot."

They drifted in silence; the ship, the Diadem, seemed impossibly distant as if she were floating among the stars. The sea and sky seemed to merge into one until Sherlock almost felt dizzy. Sherlock tightened his arm around the float, while keeping his other arm around his blogger..

Sherlock floated with his mouth parted in a grimace; he checked constantly to be sure that John's face was near his and not in the water. He pulled John up higher on his chest in order to be absolutely certain that he remain safe. He absolutely hated fearing for John and not being able to do something about it. So his mind raced, while they drifted in the dark, listening to their shared breaths and the sound of water splashing against them.

"We c-can swim again," said John suddenly.

"What?"

"Oh, are y-you asking me t-to repeat m'self?" asked John, his voice sounded like there was a smile behind it.

"Oh for God…"

"Sh-sherlock. The cramp is almost gone. Let's try again, yeah?"

"Fine, we'll go slow."

"Yeah, um sorry I'm slowing you down…"

"Idiot, I'm sorry I got you into this mess."

"Oh, oh...oh dear! R-r-repetitions and ap-p-ologies all in one day," said John with a shuddery giggle. "L-lucky me."

They turned over and began to slowly kick toward their distant goal. The detective let his partner set the pace. Sherlock kept his face near John's to listen to his raspy breathing.

He was startled when that breathing turned to words.

"I think you'd b-be an excellent pirate, a sexy p-pirate too….If you had a beard... you could be b-black b-beard."

"Nope, wouldn't work. My beard actually grows in a bit reddish," said Sherlock.

For some reason, the former army doctor found this funny, and he began giggling uncontrollably.

Sherlock was concerned about hysteria or PTSD or hypothermia, although the water was relatively warm. Or maybe this was just another example of his flatmates odd sense of humor.

"I'm glad that you are enjoying our little swim, however silence might be preferable, just now," Sherlock advised.

That only made John worse. The blogger muffled his mouth against their joined hands. Finally, the blond looked up.

"S-sorry, again…I'm sorry, I d-d-don't know w-what's wrong with me t-tonight."

"Idiot," said Sherlock fondly.

"I w-want you to know, Sherlock. I'd follow you anywhere…I _will_ follow you…j-just as long as you want me to," said John seriously.

"John you don't have to do this now."

"If not…not now, then when, Sherlock?" asked the waterlogged blogger. "You know I'm not good t-talking about my feelings…"

"Yes, your counselor certainly complained about it often enough."

"Stop it! I'm serious. And I want y-you to know that… I have no regrets. The t-time I've gotten to spend with you was…w-well... I lived more of my life and I lived it b-better with you, than all the r-rest of my life."

"John."

"No, listen, even the w-worst of times with you was better than anything else I ever did. Yeah. So, I'd r-rather be here now with y-you than anywhere else on Earth…um without you…um, okay I'm done…We can swim m-more."

Sherlock stopped to tread water and reached his free hand up to stroke a rough cheek, "I love you, John Watson,"

John turned into the palm of his long-fingered hand and kissed it once and then again.

"I love you too, Pirate Blackbeard," whispered the doctor.

"Idiot." said Sherlock, sliding his hand down to the crook of John's neck and then pulling his lover closer.

The blogger looped his arms around his partner's neck and pressed their lips together. He tilted his head to make the kiss closer and deeper.

Sherlock parted John's lips with his tongue. John allowed him entrance, allowed him to taste and explore the salty tasting heat. Then the smaller man slipped free to bite Sherlock back. The blond blogger nibbled on the brunet's lower lip. The taller man gasped as his blogger slid a leg around his waist.

"Oh, I d-do like this," murmured John. "For once we're the same height." He said, kissing cheekbone and rough jaw line. "For once I don't have to stretch to reach you…And it's warmer…this way."

His legs tightened around Sherlock's lean waist.

"I like this too. I like having you close to me. Hmmmmm, I also think I like it when you taste salty," Sherlock muttered into John's cool, wet skin, spreading kisses over his lover's face. "But perhaps this is not an ideal place to display our affections…"

"Says the man who took me on London Bridge only last month."

"Hmm. I didn't hear any complaints…"

"What? I said it was a bad idea…"

"Well, there weren't any complaints once we got started."

"Mmmm," agreed John.

"You loved it." said Sherlock, gnawing under John's ear, gnawing and kissing. "Of course, there weren't heavily armed pirates who wanted our blood on London Bridge."

"Mmmm," John kissed the love of his life thoroughly, one last taste of his mouth and his lips. One last lick across those erotic Cupid's lips. Because there was every chance that this would have to suffice for an eternity. John felt the first pangs of loss and separation, but he felt no fear; not really. He couldn't really feel afraid as long as he was with Sherlock, who was his hero whether Sherlock wanted to believe it or not.

"Right. Well at least the bloody boat is getting closer," muttered John. "Let's do this."

Once more they began to quietly paddling toward the looming yacht.

"It looks bigger from down here," whispered John.

"Mmm. John?"

"Yeah?"

"My pirate name isn't Blackbeard, it's Shezza. It's always been Shezza, King of the Pirates."

"Ah…" said John, considering,"…Right.…of course it is. King of the Pirates. Yeah, with a mind palace, of course you would be the _King_ of the Pirates. All right. I'll stick with Captain Jack and you're Shezza, King of the Pirates. We'll go forth, just you and me against the world. We'll vanquish those undeserving, lubberly dogs and shove 'em right off their damned ship."

"Yes," agreed Sherlock.

After a bit, John asked, "How exactly are we going to climb up to the deck, Shezza?" John whispered. "The hull is really very high up."

"Yes, and you are somewhat vertically challenged," observed Sherlock quietly.

John made a soft scoffing noise. "I'm not short, you're abnormally tall."

"Perhaps we could find some purchase on the right side of the boat…"

"starboard. It's called the starboard side."

Sherlock ignored the correction.

"But… I have a better idea, John. I shall climb up the anchor tie-fast…"

"Anchor line, not a tie-fast."

"I hate when you do that, John."

"No you don't."

"Yes, of course I do; you are fortunate that I find you attractive in spite of your annoying habit of obsessively over-utilizing jargon." He glanced over at his tow-headed companion. "Will you be able to climb the rope? I realize that your shoulder is in a bad way."

"It's fine. I'm fine. Everything's fine," whispered John, annoyed at his aching shoulder and at Sherlock for noticing that it ached.

They glided gently toward the anchor line, which draped from the stern.

"Um, just remember that the props are right here, just under the waterline…" warned John, who had boarded a smuggler's ship from the water not so long ago*.

"As I am well aware," said Sherlock, who refrained from saying '_obviously'_. "We can't make any firm plans without knowing who is still awake and able to respond to our attack," Sherlock whispered into his soldier's ear.

Now John refrained from saying '_obviously_'.

"Surely they'll have set a watch," said John.

"Well, I am hoping that they did not. They seemed to be very drunk earlier, and I doubt that they expect us to attack them," said the brunet, speaking softly in John's ear. "Still, we'll have to wait to see what we find. We'll just have to…"

"…play it by _ear_," said John into Sherlock's ear. "Get it, by _ear_? And we're whispering into each other's ear?"

"Idiot."

"Give us kiss, Shezza," said John, with a predatory grin as he looked up at the dark stern looming overhead. Sherlock grabbed his blogger's neck and pulled him in for a kiss that left them both breathless.

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><p><strong>AN**

Reference to an earlier fic, He's A Pirate. (also by Sendai and a bit rough around the edges since it was my first published fic)

Reviews are greatly appreciated :D

Thank you to those who follow or favortited this fic, :D

Thank you to power0girl of your unflagging support and reviews.

**Disclaimer** I don't own the rights to SHERLOCK but would like to. LOL** :D**


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